


Important

by detectivejigsaw



Series: Sergeant Carter-centric [2]
Category: Hogan's Heroes
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Epic Bromance, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-01-10 13:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12300420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detectivejigsaw/pseuds/detectivejigsaw
Summary: Carter get sent on a job with some members of the Underground.  Unfortunately, he gets captured by the Gestapo.  Even more unfortunately, he gets captured by Hochstetter, who revels in this opportunity to unlock the identity of Papa Bear once and for all.  Can the Heroes get Carter back before it's too late?Has some references to "Hidden Depths," my set of HH vignettes about Carter, and some very dark parts coming up (though probably not as dark as I think they are in my head).  Don't say I didn't warn you.





	1. Carter finds trouble

“You understand the plan?” Colonel Hogan asked, looking over the small group of people.

There were numerous nods and murmurs of “Yes, sir.”

“Good.  You move in one hour; be ready.”

 

They had to break into a munitions factory just outside of Hammelburg, which was apparently constructing some new kind of weaponry that high command thought would be extra risky to their army, and ideally, the mission was to blow it sky high.  Sergeant Carter had been hard at work for weeks constructing new bombs for it (and been as happy about it as a pig in slop), and now things were almost ready.

A few things were worrying Corporal Newkirk about this mission, though; first of all, recently Klink had been more paranoid than usual about making sure none of his prisoners were escaping Stalag 13, so they’d been forced to ask some of the Underground to help them, rather than just using all their own men.  It wasn’t concern about having to use civilians that concerned the Englander, though, or even paranoia about having to work with strangers he didn’t trust as much as his own team.  It was the fact that Heidegger was among them.

* * *

Adelhard Heidegger was very...passionate about the cause of ending this war and putting a stop to Hitler’s antics.  He’d actually been in the German army for a while, but eventually become disillusioned about their cause and joined the resistance movement.  He’d provided useful information to them, despite never being a very high-ranking soldier, and he never showed evidence of potentially betraying them or anything like that.  But there was something Newkirk found himself really disliking about Heidegger.

 

It was mainly that he always seemed slightly contemptuous of the Heroes and their methods.  Of course, he always respected Hogan’s plans and never tried to question them...but the way he acted, it was like he was just going along with it to humor them, or that he didn’t have any better ideas for how to steal the item/blow up the place/smuggle the people out of Germany/whatever the plan was.  And Newkirk told himself maybe it was just that Heidegger was still a little indoctrinated into the idea that his people were the superior race, and old habits died hard.  That didn’t make him dislike the attitude any less.

 

Of all of them, though, Heidegger seemed to have the biggest beef with Carter, ever since the first time they’d worked together, when Carter had not only tripped while carrying a loaded gun and nearly shot Heidegger in the foot, but also gotten them lost in the woods while trying to retrieve some escaped prisoners from a different stalag who needed to get to England as soon as possible, and they’d almost gotten caught by the guards before Hogan quickly threw together a plan B.

Everyone had been annoyed with Carter, of course, but Heidegger seemed to have taken his mistakes as a personal insult.  He didn’t seem to notice how well the sergeant’s bombs worked, or the times he successfully carried out orders without damaging anything.  He just looked at him with a cold blue stare, oblivious to how Carter would try to placate him with his usual friendliness and innocence that could win over the hardest of hearts.

 

What had Newkirk really worried was that Heidegger and Carter would have to work together during this mission, playing a colonel and his aide arrived to inspect the facilities (much to the former’s indignation, Carter would be playing the colonel).  Both were necessary, because Carter had to put in the main bomb and time it to exactly the right moment, and Heidegger had once been stationed at that factory and knew its layout like the back of his hand so he could point out the best places to plant the rest of the bombs, as well as a viable escape route.  But Newkirk wished he could be there with them, or even going in Carter’s place.

* * *

Hogan, who was also staying behind to run interference with Klink in case he wanted to do an emergency check on the prisoners, appeared to be just as worried, though probably not for the same reasons.  Probably none of the Underground could see it, though; it would be just his own crew, who were so used to him and his emotions, who would notice the way his jaw and hands kept clenching, or the way he was wisecracking even less than he usually did when he was being serious.

Part of Newkirk suddenly wanted to speak up, tell him that maybe it was a bad idea to have Carter and Heidegger working together.  But that was silly, wasn’t it?  Despite being an unpleasant bloke, Heidegger was a good member of the team, and he wouldn’t actually do anything to double-cross them.  Besides, Carter had several explosives on him; he could take care of himself.  Despite all appearances, he wasn’t completely incompetent.  They’d be fine.

The clenching in his gut wasn’t going away.

 

The team of men-six in all, counting Carter and Heidegger-would go in separate vehicles to the factory.  Three of the men, all part of the Underground, would be disguised as workers who were on the graveyard shift (whatever the Krauts were making in there, they had people at it day and night), and would plant bombs at strategic points through the factory, while Carter and Heidegger would show up in their own, fancier car for a surprise inspection, with another Undergrounder as their driver, to plant the main bomb at the heart of the building.  And if all went well, by the end of the night the factory would be destroyed.

Newkirk grimaced at himself; he was jinxing them just by thinking that.

 

Carter was giving him a look, he noticed as the team prepared to leave.  Newkirk glanced at him irritably.

“What?”

The younger man frowned.

“You’re upset about something.  What is it?”

Newkirk blinked.  “What-no I’m not, what makes you think-”

“You’re frowning.  And your hands are fidgeting like they do when you wish you had some cards in them or things you could juggle so you’d have something to do.  That’s what they always do when you’re nervous or upset about something.”

_ Perceptive. _

Newkirk swallowed.  “Just a weird feeling, all right?  Everything’s going to be fine.”

Whether he believed it or not, he needed Carter to believe it.  Bad enough the poor kid was being stuck with a cold fish who didn’t like him and seemed to think he was nothing but an idiot, he didn’t need him getting nervous too.

After another second, Carter smiled and squeezed his shoulder quietly, before pulling himself up the tunnel to the tree stump.  Newkirk hesitated, wishing he had volunteered to be the driver, feeling that same odd unease, before shaking himself and going back into the barracks.

* * *

The drive up was in very uncomfortable silence.

Carter more or less understood the reason for it; Heidegger wasn’t much for idle chatter during a mission, and it would make it easier for both of them to get into character as an aloof, important colonel and his lowly aide.  Besides, he didn’t like Carter.  But the silence also made the sergeant a little nervous, and he wished they could at least talk about what they were about to do.  He’d learned, though, not to try to engage Heidegger in conversation, after getting his head bitten off by the irate German at least once.

 

When they arrived at the factory, of course Carter marched in, in full Wehrmacht glory as Colonel Fuhrmann, barking out orders and terrorizing the poor foreman into showing him around.  Inside he wanted to apologize for his bad behavior, because nobody deserved to be bullied like this, but he restrained himself.

“...And here is the office, Herr Oberst,” said the foreman, opening the door and leading them inside.

Carter instantly walked to the desk and used his riding crop to begin sifting through the pile of papers on the desk, as if he were inspecting them to make sure they were in order.

“You may leave us,” he said, without looking up.

“But-but I don’t think-” the foreman started to splutter.

Carter didn’t bother trying to speak.  He just lifted his head up and stared at him coldly for several seconds, until the poor man finally backed out of the doorway and disappeared.

 

Carter waited until he heard the sound of footsteps walking away down the hall, before breathing a sigh of relief.  He looked over at Heidegger, and to his surprise saw that he was being looked at with grudging approval.

“You are very convincing,” was all Heidegger said.

“Thanks.”  Carter straightened up, and dug a bomb out of his coat.  “Help me find a good place to plant this.”

Heidegger nodded, and began searching.

 

When that was done, they crept out of the office, carefully shutting the door after them so perhaps the foreman would think they were still inside for at least a little bit, and headed towards the Danger Area to plant the main bomb.  Carter made sure to stand up straight and walk confidently, as if he owned the place; any furtiveness or hesitation on his part would automatically open him up to suspicion.

_ Just continuing to inspect the premises without that nosy  _ dummkopf _ foreman around… _

He projected Colonel Fuhrmann’s haughtiness and irritation at being forced to perform this menial chore into his face and body language until he almost felt it himself.  Heidegger walked a step behind him, looking every inch the hassled-yet-loyal guard dog he was supposed to be.  They saw relatively few people, and even better, were seen by even fewer people.

 

Of course, their luck was too good to last.

Once they were actually in the Danger Area, they found a good pipe to hide the bomb behind, and Heidegger was standing guard while Carter began wiring it in place, when-

“What are you doing?!” a harsh German voice demanded.

Carter turned around.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you, corporal!” he barked at the man who’d asked.

There were two of them, in security officer outfits, with hands warily at their guns but not quite drawing them yet.  The one who’d spoken, who Carter now noticed was wearing a sergeant’s uniform, looked confused.

“But I’m a sergeant-”

“Not anymore!” he improvised.

It almost worked; there was a moment of hesitation on their parts, before the other one happened to look over Carter’s shoulder-and saw the bomb.

“Sound the alarm!” he called out.  “Saboteurs!”

With a curse, Heidegger drew his weapon.

 

Carter found himself at the attention of the sergeant who he’d tried to demote, and with a gun practically jabbing him in the chest.

He swallowed.

And then, figuring he had nothing to lose, he held out one of his fists.

“You see that?” he asked.

The sergeant blinked at it in confusion-before Carter’s other fist lashed out and socked him in the jaw.

It was a  very calculated risk, since he could have been shot in the attempt.  But against all odds, Carter found he had stunned the man enough to twist the gun out of his grip and knock him in the head with the barrel; he crumpled to the ground silently.

“Did you see that?!” he asked excitedly, spinning around.  “I’ve only seen that work with the Three Stooges-”

His grin faded, and he stared with wide eyes at Heidegger-well, technically at the body which was now lying at his feet with a bullet in his brain.

 

The Undergrounder stared back at him.

“What?” he snapped.

“You-you shot him,” Carter stuttered.

Heidegger’s face twisted into something between confusion and annoyance.

“We are in a  _ war _ ,” he said.  “Besides, he would have died anyway when this place explodes.  Is the bomb ready?”

Carter forced himself to turn to the bomb, still feeling like he’d been kicked in the stomach.  He checked it over, and then adjusted the timer.

“It’s ready now,” he whispered.

“Good.”  Heidegger grabbed his arm, and began dragging him away.  “We need to go, now.”

* * *

The two men rushed towards the back of the factory, where Heidegger knew of another exit, just in time for an alarm to start blaring.

Carter still felt sick and shaky; he knew they were in a war, but there was a difference between blowing up someone from a distance, and having to see their lifeless body just seconds after they’d been shot.  And even though he was trying to not be a burden, he had a feeling he was going to fall apart when they got back to camp.

Hopefully none of the guys would laugh at him for it.

 

A man saw them, yelled for them to stop; Heidegger turned and shot him too.  Luckily his gun had a silencer.

They weren’t bothering with trying to be stealthy or hiding now; now they were running.  Carter had set the bombs to go off in five minutes, hopefully giving them and the other people who’d snuck into the factory enough time to get out.  Part of him wondered if they could have still gotten away with pretending to be finishing the inspection, and just hoped that no one had noticed the bodies-

His stomach lurched, and he tried not to think about it.

 

Heidegger pulled him left, right, down a flight of stairs, down a corridor, to the exit-where there was a guard, who was starting to draw his weapon and ask what they were doing there-

Heidegger shot him down, and then was shoving the door open, stepping over the body and yanking Carter out into the cold night.

 

“The car’s out in front,” Heidegger growled in frustration, finally releasing Carter.  “And we’ve blown our cover, so we can’t just walk out there and pretend like nothing happened.”

_ And ‘o’s fault is that, mate? _ Carter’s inner Newkirk demanded.   _ You didn’t ‘ave to turn into a ruddy cowboy and start shooting everyone. _

A twisted grin spread across Carter’s face for a moment, until he noticed that Heidegger was giving him an odd stare.  Just in time for the search lights to come on, and the barking of dogs to start.  And these wouldn’t be the nice, friendly German shepherds that they had so well-trained back at camp.  These would be the kind trained to tear you to shreds.

_ Think, Carter, think think think… _

“We’ll have to try the fence,” Heidegger was saying.

“It’s electrified,” Carter murmured.

“Usually it is.”  The Undergrounder grinned savagely.  “I may or may not have cut the power to it while we were planting a bomb in the office.”

“Oh.”  Carter pulled some wire cutters out of his pocket.  “Then I didn’t bring these for nothing after all.”

Heidegger blinked, before grabbing them from him and dragging him towards the fence.

 

He didn’t waste time with trying to be neat in his cutting; he just tore and hacked through the chain links, creating a hole that should be just big enough for one of them at a time.

And then, of course, things went even more to hell.

“Halt!” a voice yelled, and there was the crunching of gravel as feet pounded towards them.

Carter didn’t think twice; he shoved Heidegger through, and said, “Run!”

Then he held up his hands in surrender, just in time for the factory to explode.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Carter was kneeling on the ground, hands on his head, as the guard who had captured him and a few other survivors of the explosion stood around him.

“What do we do with him?” one of them asked, gesturing at Carter.

“We don’t have to do anything.  The Gestapo will deal with him.”

Carter gulped quietly, trying not to show the sudden burst of terror this had produced, and hoping the colonel would come up with a plan and get him quickly.  Maybe he’d disguise himself as Gestapo and come in person to save him; yeah, that would be just like him.  It would be fine; Carter had nothing to worry about.

 

And there was the Gestapo car now; any second, Colonel Hogan or LeBeau or Newkirk or one of the other guys would step out and take him into ‘custody,’ and they’d go home and he could try to forget this night had ever happened-

The door opened, and Carter’s hopes slowly crumbled into dust as the Gestapo officer came forward and took a good look at him.

“Well, well, well,” sneered Hochstetter, his beady eyes glittering with triumph.  “What is this man doing here?”


	2. Heidegger has no Tact

_They’ve been gone too long._  
 _Something must ‘ave ‘appened._  
 _Everything’s got to be fine-but it can’t be, not if they’re this late!_  
A hand on Newkirk’s shoulder scared him out of nearly a year’s growth, and he spun around with an oath to find Hogan standing behind him with a look of some concern.  
“Maybe you should sit down,” Hogan said, gesturing to the nearby bench.  
“I’m fine,” Newkirk growled, ready to start pacing again.  
He was stopped by a strong hand at his other side pushing him down onto the aforementioned bench.  
“You’re making us all nervous,” said Kinch.  
“Well, maybe we should be!” he protested, though remaining seated. “We ‘aven’t ‘eard a ruddy thing, and-”  
This time he was interrupted by the sound of feet climbing down the ladder, and one of the blokes from the Underground appearing, rubbing some soot off his face.

Hogan looked at him anxiously.  
“Well?”  
The man rubbed away more soot, before looking up and smiling.  
“We did it. Nothing left but a pile of rubble.”  
A collective sigh of relief arose from most of the men who were in the tunnel, and even some soft cheering as the rest of the away team came climbing down to safety.  
Neither Hogan nor Newkirk joined them, as they both realized that only five men had returned.  
“Where’s Carter?”

Heidegger grimaced. “I’m afraid that he was captured just before the factory exploded. And I believe he was claimed by the Gestapo.”  
“He what!”  
The German didn’t seem to notice the horror of Newkirk’s tone, or the way the whole temperature of the room seemed to drop as people heard his words. He just looked to Hogan. “I apologize for the loss of your man.”  
Hogan asked, “What happened?”  
The Undergrounder explained, concluding with, “I thought it best to come back here as soon as I could, and not waste the opportunity he gave me to escape. So I don’t know where they have him.”  
“So, what, you just left ‘im?!” Newkirk demanded, surging forward, despite the warning look Hogan gave him. “You oughta know better than any of us what they’ll do to ‘im to make ‘im talk!”  
Heidegger gave him a cold stare. “As I said, he gave me a chance to escape and report back to you. You should be proud of his noble sacrifice. Apparently he understood that in the long run, he was the most expendable member of your team.”  
Newkirk moved.

* * *

Both Hogan and Kinch were forced to work together to pull him off Heidegger, and even when they succeeded they were struggling to keep him back.  
Someone was yelling at Newkirk to calm down; it took him a moment to realize that it was Hogan. Someone else was yelling a very impressive number of accusations and epithets; it took another moment to realize that it was him, and to finally shut his mouth.  
Heidegger slowly sat up; blood had sprayed from his nose and lips, and he looked...dazed, to say the least. Despite having three inches and quite a few muscles more than Newkirk, it hadn’t been much of a fight.  
Finally the Englander stopped trying to surge forward, and as soon as his friends lessened their grips on him, shook them off and stepped back, flexing his stinging knuckles.

Heidegger got to his feet, staring at him warily, and stepped back towards the ladder.  
“It appears I have overstayed my welcome,” he said smoothly, at least as much as he could through a bloody nose.  
“You’d better not come back,” Newkirk snarled. “And if they’ve done anything to Carter, you better pray I don’t see you again.”  
Without a reply Heidegger climbed up the ladder, and peered up through the stump. After a second, though, he was looking back down.  
“Colonel Hogan, there appear to be a large number of soldiers walking around outside, probably looking for whoever was responsible for the explosion. I do not think that any of us will be leaving here anytime soon.”  
“D____t,” Hogan muttered. Then he looked to his men. “I’ll work on a plan to get us out there. In the meantime, we need to find out where they’re keeping Carter.”

Another of the Underground men, a weaselly little man who called himself Jager, stepped forward.  
“I saw them after the explosion,” he said softly. “There was a car, but I don’t think they took him outside of Hammelburg. There’s a chance that they’re interrogating him somewhere in town.”  
That was all Hogan needed to hear.  
“Kinch.”  
That was all Kinch needed to hear.  
“On it, Colonel.” He was already heading to his radio station to see what he could find out from any Kraut communications or any of their Underground contacts.  
Hogan gave Newkirk his “I unofficially agree with you but you’re still in trouble” glare, before saying, “I hope I don’t need to tell you that we need to act quickly; we know what the Gestapo is capable of doing to people.”


	3. Hochstetter is looking for answers

**Warning: this is the chapter where things start to get dark.**

* * *

Carter wasn’t sure he’d ever been this afraid in his life. Of course, it was a little hard to judge since he was actually experiencing this in the moment, so naturally being held captive by the Gestapo would seem like the most terrifying thing that had ever happened to him. But from what he could remember of his life (it hadn’t quite reached the flashing-before-his-eyes stage that he’d heard people talk about having when you were in mortal danger), nothing had ever come close to this.

They’d brought him to a small townhouse somewhere in the middle of Hammelburg, dragging him through the front door and down to the cellar.  
On the way he’d been surprised to see what looked like a family, dressed in some kind of fancy clothes, and two men in air force uniforms sitting in the living room, guarded by soldiers.  
He’d wondered why they hadn’t blindfolded him or put a bag over his head or anything.  
Now that he was here, though, he realized the truth with sickening clarity.  
They hadn’t tried to conceal anything from him because they had no plans for him to leave here alive.

Carter was in a chair.  
A high-backed, uncomfortable oak chair, the kind with fancily decorated armrests.  
His wrists were currently handcuffed to the armrests, rendering them much less aesthetically pleasing, and his ankles cuffed to the legs. He’d been divested of his greatcoat, so he was just in his shirt and slacks and boots, making him very aware of how chilly this cellar was.  
That wasn’t the scariest part, though.  
The scariest part was that the armchair had been bolted to the floor, and at an angle just a few feet away from a drain, probably leading to the sewers.  
Every time he looked at it, he got a little chill in his heart, and wondered how many people before him had been forced to sit in this chair.  
He wondered how many of them had gotten out of it walking on their own two legs.

Finally the cellar door opened, and down the steps came Hochstetter, still with that triumphant look in his eyes.  
Right behind him clomped one of the most enormous men Carter had ever seen.  
His head had been shaved bald-either that, or he was just really bad at growing hair, like Colonel Klink; the top of it scraped against the ceiling slightly even as he descended. He had an enormous, thick neck, muscular arms that seemed to be straining against his uniform, and big, meaty hands with fingers that looked as thick as pieces of bratwurst.  
Next to him, Hochstetter looked like a particularly malicious little boy, even with the mustache.  
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the hulking soldier stood at attention, eyes staring dully ahead, while Hochstetter sauntered forward, tapping his riding crop into his fingers.  
“Sergeant...Carter, isn’t it?” he finally asked.  
Carter just stared at him, blinking a little, concealing his shock that he remembered who he was.  
“Oh, yes, I know who you are. You are a little far from Stalag 13-and in a Wehrmacht uniform, no less.” The riding crop flicked at his shirt as the major clucked in disapproval. “Did Colonel Hogan-I’m sorry, _Papa Bear_ help you acquire it?”  
The normally loquacious Carter said nothing. This wasn’t so bad; it was just someone with a big mouth talking down to him. He could handle that.  
“I advise you to talk to me now. You don’t want to drag this out, I promise you.”  
He was greeted with more silence.  
Hochstetter evidently decided that he didn’t feel like trying to drag information out of Carter with words anymore. He raised his hand, gesturing to the soldier with two fingers.

The big man stepped forward, and slowly removed his coat, revealing that yes, his arms were even more muscular when bared. His bratwurst hands curled into fists.  
“Mind the throat and the lungs,” Hochstetter said, moving out of his way. “We still need him to be able to speak.”

* * *

_Expendable._  
 _The most expendable member of the team._  
 _He called Carter expendable._  
Newkirk felt his hands clenching all over again at the memory of that son of a b_____’s words.

Most of them were back in the barracks now, except for Kinch, who was still on the radio. The Englander had been sent to his bunk to cool off-essentially Colonel Hogan’s method of telling him that he was grounded. He was lying on his back, staring morosely up at the ceiling and brooding over what had happened.  
He didn’t regret his actions, though.  
Not even a little.

It was...absolutely appalling, that level of coldheartedness coming from Heidegger. I mean-even if he did get on the man’s nerves, Carter was still a person, just as much as he was! How could he possibly think it was okay to just let him get captured, and not even bother trying to find out where he was so maybe they’d have a chance to save him?  
To have that much disregard for life?  
As he thought that, something odd happened.  
Newkirk found himself understanding something about Carter that he hadn’t before.

Climbing down from the bunk, he reached under Carter’s, and pulled out a large shoebox, lifting the lid off.  
Inside were piles of dirt, scraps of cloth, a tiny bowl of water, a pile of sunflower seeds and pieces of vegetables and cracker crumbs...and a small gray mouse.  
Felix looked up at Newkirk with curiosity in his dark eyes, whiskers twitching madly.  
The Englander stared back at him for a moment, before extending a cautious finger into the box.  
The mouse shrank back for a moment, before leaning forward and sniffing at it. Seeing no obvious threat, he allowed Newkirk to run his finger along his furry back.  
With a small smile, Newkirk went on petting the mouse. He really was rather cute; and if what Carter said was true, he was rather intelligent for a mouse.  
The smile faded.  
 _I should’ve said something._  
 _I knew ‘e shouldn’t ‘ave gone with ruddy Heidegger._

The far bunk rolled up, and Kinch climbed up the ladder into the barracks. His expression was rather grim.  
Hogan bounded over to him.  
“Did you find out where he is?”  
Kinch nodded.  
“He’s in Hammelburg, in a house being held by the Gestapo. But there’s a bigger problem.”  
Hogan stiffened.  
“What?”  
Kinch said softly, “Hochstetter has him.”

* * *

“That’s enough!” Hochstetter commanded.  
The brutish soldier-Carter still didn’t know what his name was-stepped back, and took the handkerchief Hochstetter gave him to wipe his knuckles.  
Carter sagged in his chair, feeling blood dribbling down his face and chin from he-didn’t-know-how-many areas. His ribs throbbed; he thought he’d heard some cracking in there during the...questioning, and had a mental image of them shattering and crumbling into a pile of dust like in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.  
If they did, his spine would be the only thing holding his torso up, and being such a frail thing, it would probably snap and make him fold up like an accordion.  
He wanted to giggle hysterically, except it would hurt too much.

Hochstetter was standing in front of him now, leaning forwards slightly, using the tip of the riding crop to lift his chin.  
“Do you feel like speaking yet?” he asked. “All I want is for you to confess that Colonel Hogan is Papa Bear, and tell me how he has been doing all this sabotage. And then I will let you go.”  
 _We both know you’re lying, Hochstetter. Even if I told you, you’d have me executed as a spy. Along with everyone else in camp._  
“Answer me!” the major barked.  
Carter stared at him for a moment, and then croaked, “ _I am Little Deer who goes Swift and Sure through Forest. I have nothing to say to you_.”  
Hochstetter and the soldier shot each other very confused looks; possibly because he had said it in Lakhota.  
Their expressions were quite comical, really. Carter could practically hear canned laughter playing as he watched them.

It didn’t last; soon enough Hochstetter was turning back to him, eyes narrowing angrily.  
“I don’t know what language you are speaking, but I know you can understand me!” His hands slammed onto the armrests of the chair. “Is Colonel Hogan Papa Bear?”  
“ _I have nothing to say to you_.”  
“Is Colonel Hogan Papa Bear?”  
“ _I have nothing to say to you_.”  
“Is. Colonel. Hogan. Papa. Bear?!” The riding crop lashed across his cheek.  
Carter whimpered at the stinging, but just said again, “ _I have nothing to say to you_.”

Hochstetter glared at him, and then looked down at his hands. Slowly he let go of the armrests, and gestured for the brute to approach. Then he gestured at Carter’s right hand.  
Carter stared apprehensively.  
“Tell me what I want to know,” Hochstetter demanded.  
Carter said nothing.  
With a world-weary sigh, Hochstetter made another gesture.  
The brute reached down and picked up Carter’s pinky finger.  
Carter didn’t move.  
The brute jerked his finger outwards, with a resounding crack.  
Carter screamed.

* * *

**Yes, I borrowed part of this from _Dances With Wolves_.  It just seemed appropriate.**


	4. Hogan starts weaving his web

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More darkness in here.

Hogan clapped his hands, attracting all his compatriots’ attention towards him, and therefore to the plan he had come up with.  
“We need to create a diversion to draw off most of the guards.” He looked over at Lebeau. “Am I right in thinking that we still have some fireworks in storage?”  
Lebeau nodded. “Oui, colonel. And a few bags of gunpowder.”  
“Good. C-” he quickly amended, hoping nobody had noticed the slip- “Kinch, I want you to set some up on the side of camp farthest from the gates, so the Kraut’s attention will be drawn over there. That will allow another group, at least three of them disguised as Gestapo officers, to get a staff car, and drive into Hammelburg to get Carter out.”  
“...How are you going to get a staff car out of the gates with nobody noticing it?” asked Jager, eyes narrowing.  
“Schultz is on guard duty,” was the simple reply.  
The prisoners of Stalag 13 nodded in understanding; the men from the underground looked more confused, but evidently decided to go with the explanation.

“What are you going to do about roll call?” Lebeau asked. “It’s only a few hours away.”  
“I know.” Hogan grimaced. “We could just say that some of you tried to escape in all the excitement-”  
“I have a better idea,” Jager spoke again. He gestured to himself and his men. “Let us go and get your man back for you. That way none of you will be found missing except for him-unless…”  
He pulled forward another member of the Underground, Fischer. He was of medium height, on the slender side, and dirty blond. Jager picked up Carter’s cap, which he’d left on his bunk, and slid it onto Fischer’s head, pulling it down over his eyes.

Of course, nobody who examined him closely would mistake him for Carter. But there was enough of a passing resemblance that even in an emergency roll call, on a dark chilly night where nobody wanted to be out there for long, especially a cowardly monocled colonel or a rotund sergeant, he might be able to get away with it.  
“We can use the radio to bring more of us to help,” Jager went on.  
Hogan frowned. “I don’t want to endanger you; you’re civilians, and typically this is our kind of job-”  
“Colonel, you and your men have endangered yourselves time and time again for our sakes,” said Jager. “Now one of them has gotten himself captured while trying to protect one of us.”  
 _And because one of you abandoned ‘im_ , Newkirk thought rebelliously.  
“It’s only fair that we return the favor this time.” After a moment, he went on, “If you wish you or one of your men may come with us-”  
“I volunteer,” Newkirk said without hesitating.

After a long pause in which he worried that someone would try to stop him from going, Hogan and Jager both nodded.  
Newkirk gave an inward sigh of relief; having their permission saved him the trouble of acquiring a Gestapo uniform from their stash and going out on his own anyway.

“We will need at least two of you to actually go to Hammelburg,” Hogan went on. “The rest of you need to set up a series of roadblocks, accidents, or whatever else we might require on the main road there.”  
At the number of confused looks he received, he said, “If I know Hochstetter the way I think I do, he’s going to be headed towards camp soon. We need to stop him from arriving here before we’re back.”

* * *

A splash of cold water had Carter sitting up and spluttering; the jerking against the cuffs which provoked a sudden, searing pain in his right hand nearly had him losing consciousness again. He started to look down at it to see what was the matter-and quickly looked away again, so he wouldn’t have to see his swollen, bloodied, broken fingers and thumb. So he wouldn’t have to wonder if he’d ever be able to use his hand again.  
“Is Colonel Hogan Papa Bear?” Hochstetter demanded without preamble, drawing his attention back to the irate major.  
 _If he had red mustaches, he could be a German version of Yosemite Sam. Neither of them has any concept of indoor voice._  
“ _Do you ever get tired of asking the same questions over and over?_ ” Carter asked, looking at him curiously.  
“Stop speaking in whatever made-up language that is!”  
“ _The language of my people is very real, you overgrown wolverine. It’s been around since long before you were born._ ”  
The riding crop lashed across his cheek; Carter felt a new cut opening, and wondered if there could possibly be any blood left in his face to leak out.

The brute stood at attention next to Hochstetter, staring straight ahead, not even looking bored, just...expressionless. His hands hung at his sides, fingers slightly curled inwards, still a little bloody around the knuckles.  
 _You’d probably be a good boxer_ , Carter thought dazedly, looking him over. _But Kinch could still take you any day of the week._  
It took him a moment to realize that Hochstetter had said something, when a gloved hand grabbed his chin and jerked his face over in the other man’s direction.  
“Do we have to see if you can stay quiet while we take the fingers of your other hand?!” he demanded.  
Behind him, the soldier (Carter decided to call him Fritz) drew a large hunting knife from his boot.

Carter blanched; he couldn’t help it (and not just because he was suffering from severe blood loss and extreme emotional and physical stress).  
He loved his hands.  
They were what allowed him to create explosives, to doodle on whatever spare pieces of paper he could find lying around, to play with Felix-they were essential to his way of life.  
But there were his friends to consider.  
They were essential to his way of life too.  
Besides, Hochstetter (or more likely Fritz acting on his orders) was going to kill him anyway.  
So the US tech sergeant was able to look up at him with frightened, yet determined, blue eyes.  
 _Do your worst._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sniff*  
> Carter's so brave!


	5. Hochstetter is evil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween, everyone.

Sergeant Hans Schultz stood in relaxation against the camp gates, enjoying the peace of the night while it lasted.  
He knew that some kind of monkey business had been going on amongst the prisoners, considering the huge explosion that had occurred earlier, leading to all those soldiers who were out wandering in the woods; whether they appeared to have been out of camp or not, he was sure it was them. It had certainly woken Klink up, and now he was trying to get on the phone with anyone who could tell him what had happened.

Speaking of Klink, the big shot was very on edge lately, mainly because he knew that General Burkhalter was in town. Schultz had heard that he was planning on showing up in camp at some point to make sure, in his words, “that you haven’t given me further reason to despair of our ever winning this war.”  
Therefore, Klink wanted Schultz to be extra careful about making sure no prisoner had escaped from Stalag 13, or that they had even been attempting an escape.  
The big man drummed nervous fingers on the barrel of his rifle, worrying.  
Colonel Klink hadn’t ordered an inspection yet, but he probably would soon, and for their sakes Schultz hoped everyone would be present and accounted for.

* * *

Fritz stepped forward, brandishing the knife with the look of a hunter about to make the final blow.  
Carter promptly squeezed his eyes shut.  
_It’s just like going to the dentist. You just close your eyes so you won’t see what he’s doing to you, lie back and relax, and before you know it he’s done._  
_And it’s all over._

He felt one bratwurst hand closing around his wrist, the sting of the blade digging into the flesh of his pinky finger-  
“Wait.”  
There was a pause, and then the knife was gone, and his wrist was being released.  
Carter opened his eyes, warily.  
Hochstetter was looking down at him thoughtfully, one hand tapping his chin as he stared down at the tech sergeant.  
Then he smiled, which was not overly encouraging.  
“I have a better idea.”

“Clearly,” Hochstetter went on, “you have the strength of will not to crack, no matter what we do to you.”  
Carter didn’t like the way he emphasized the word “you.”  
“But,” and here the smile became even more malicious, “what if I were to bring back one of your friends, and subject them to the same sort of treatment?”  
Despite trying to stay expressionless, Carter must have betrayed himself somehow-a widening of the eyes or something.  
Hochstetter leaned close, eyes triumphant again. His breath smelled awful.  
“Maybe the little Frenchman-Sergeant Brachmorder would have plenty of fun with him.”  
Inwardly Carter bristled. Hochstetter was hardly a giant himself; he had no right to be making fun of Lebeau’s height.  
“Or perhaps the big mouth Britisher-he has very light fingers, I’ve heard. It would be a pleasure to watch them getting cut off, one by one.”  
Sweat trickled down the prisoner’s back.  
“Or even the biggest fish of them all: Papa Bear himself. Whoever I choose, though, I imagine that if you had to spend some time listening to each other scream…” he finally pulled back, “eventually one of you would tell me all that I want to know.”

He gestured to Fritz (or Sergeant Brachmorder, or whatever Carter was supposed to call him), who had replaced the knife, and together they climbed the stairs of the cellar. Before the door closed, Carter heard Hochstetter say, “Let nobody enter this room but me. When I return, let me know if he has talked.”  
Then it shut, and Carter was alone in the dark.

* * *

At first, Hochstetter was all for going straight to Stalag 13 and telling that idiot who claimed to run the place that one of his prisoners was missing, and he was taking another one for questioning. But as he was leaving and stalking towards his staff car, he had another thought.  
He knew (naturally) that General Burkhalter was in town, no doubt claiming to be on business while he was really philandering with some lovely, gullible fraulein.  
It would be delightful to bring him to camp as well, and show incontestable proof that he had been right all along about Colonel Hogan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (to be read in a jarring minor chord)  
> dum Dum DUMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


	6. Deus ex machina enters the stage

Hogan was finished laying out the plan.  
While Newkirk and Jager went into Hammelburg and were retrieving Carter, the other members of the team would booby trap the road, meaning that Hochstetter would have to either walk or take a different road to Stalag 13, giving them time to bring their teammate back. Once Carter was back in camp, however, there was obviously the problem of explaining and/or hiding whatever condition he would be in (which made everyone grimace), but at least they’d have him back, hopefully alive.  
The rest was something they’d worry about when they got there.

“Any questions?” Hogan asked.  
Instead of a question, though, there was a statement from the back of the group.  
“I know someone who can help,” said Heidegger, standing at the top of the ladder leading downstairs.

* * *

To say that Heidegger’s appearance was given a frigid reception would be like saying that Hitler’s decision to invade Russia might have been kind of a stupid idea.  
Except for Newkirk, whose fiery expression made Kinch step in front of him, just in case.

Heidegger was undeterred by their obvious hostility; he went on, “I took the liberty of using your radio to call in one of our special operatives who will come in handy.”  
Hogan folded his arms. “I thought Carter was the most expendable member of our team.”  
Heidegger had the decency to wince a little. “It appears that I...underestimated his importance here.”  
 _You don’t say_ , thought Newkirk.

“Who did you bring in?” asked Jager, eyebrows creasing in confusion.  
“He’s not someone you know,” said Heidegger. “But he’s here now, and he wants to help.”  
Hogan frowned. “How did he get past the Krauts?”  
“Because he lives here, in the woods. And he’s very adept at sneaking around.”

Before anyone could question him further, Heidegger stepped inside, allowing a little figure bundled in a long coat and scarf to climb up.  
“Meet special operative Morris.”  
After a hesitant moment, the figure unwound the scarf and pulled down his collar, revealing his face.  
“Eh...hello, chaps.”  
He spoke with a slightly upper-class English accent which was somewhat unusual to hear around here. But that wasn’t what was attracting everyone’s attention, and making them stare at him with such bewilderment.

Morris’s hair was kind of a light shade of brown.  
And his upper lip was clean shaven.  
Other than that, though, he was pretty much the doppelganger of Major Wolfgang Hochstetter.


	7. Carter assesses his options

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: a few dark thoughts here.

Back in Hammelburg, Carter was thinking.  
The way he saw it, there were a number of possible things he could do right now.  
He could wait for Hochstetter to come back with whoever he took from camp, and torture both of them until they died (because he was sure that like him, they would rather die than betray their operation).  
Inadvisable.

He could wait for Hochstetter to come back with whoever he took from camp, and feed him a pack of lies about the operation.  
Colonel Hogan would definitely do that.  
Maybe Carter could even claim that he was the only one in the Underground, and that nobody else in camp was involved; or he could even claim to be Papa Bear himself-  
He could already hear the entire Gestapo laughing.  
With a sigh, Carter discarded that idea.

He could stay here and wait for Colonel Hogan or someone else from their team to come rescue him.  
That was somewhat more of a possibility...but even though he had every confidence in them, it didn’t seem right to just do nothing.  
Even if it might be more medically sensible.

Another, darker option crept into his mind.  
He could...find a way to make sure Hochstetter wouldn’t be able to question him ever again.  
It wouldn’t stop him from torturing everyone else in camp, if he could get away with it. And besides, Carter’s body would still be there. It would still be evidence against the POW’s.

There was nothing else for it, then.  
Carter would have to escape, and make his way back to camp.

* * *

While he understood that there was no way he’d get there before Hochstetter, maybe when Hochstetter returned and found that his first prisoner was gone, he’d be forced to bring the other one back, and things could go back to normal.  
Of course, there was also the chance that he’d just shoot the other person in a rage.  
But at this point in time, Carter really didn’t have any better ideas.

Step one: get free of these handcuffs.

* * *

He’d heard about people being somehow able to wiggle their hands free of them, by breaking or cutting off their thumbs.  
Carter really hoped it wouldn’t get that far, partly because he didn’t have any cutting implements on him, and partly because maybe it was selfish, but he really liked having his thumbs. Besides, looking at how swollen his actual broken thumb was, it seemed unlikely that it would make the process any easier.  
On the more practical side of that train of thought, it would be much easier to escape if he had as many working appendages as possible.

  
The other option was to somehow pick the locks.  
That really made Carter wish he were Newkirk; the Brit had occasionally tried to teach him how, and several times given up in exasperation because apparently the tech sergeant was too inept.  
Carter remembered, though, that all you really needed was a thin piece of metal, like a bobby pin or a paperclip-

A memory stirred, from before this had all started.

* * *

_“Hold still!” Lebeau growled, working to sew the hem of Carter’s Wehrmacht uniform shirt._   
_Carter sighed, and shifted impatiently on his chair, his hand toying with a paperclip he’d stolen from Klink’s office. He’d been there for what seemed like hours, and he wanted to get back to work constructing his new bomb. It was like leaving your kid unsupervised; no telling what would happen while you were gone._

_“I said hold still!” Lebeau tugged on the sleeve he’d been trying to sew impatiently, which happened to be the one with the hand holding the paperclip._   
_Carter shifted the paperclip to his other hand-at exactly the moment when Lebeau gave up on that sleeve and decided to try working on the other one._   
_There was an awkward moment before Lebeau exasperatedly wrestled the paperclip out of his hand altogether, and then shoved it into Carter’s shirt pocket._   
_“You can play with that after I’m finished!” he barked. “Now if I catch you holding it again I’ll knock your brains out!”_   
_“Okay, Moe,” Carter sighed._   
_The reference was kind of wasted on the Frenchman, who just glared at him and then went back to work._

* * *

After a while Carter had forgotten about the paperclip because he started woolgathering about something else; so as far as he knew, it was still in there. But was it his shirt pocket or his greatcoat pocket?  
Leaning forward (and nearly blacking out from the way his ribs popped), Carter lifted his left hand as far as it could reach and groped his way into his pocket.  
 _Please let it be there please let it be there please let it be there_  
And finally, Dame Fortune smiled on Andrew Carter.  
His fingers closed around thin metal, and he leaned back with a sigh of relief.

* * *

It was difficult working with his left hand, but he managed to push part of the paperclip into an L shape by pressing it against the chair, and then push it into the lock of the cuff wrapped around the arm of his chair. Carter then twisted it back and forth, remembering something about needing to push a pin out of alignment or something.  
To his astonishment, a few minutes later he actually heard a click, and found that he was able to lift his arm free.

With an excited smile, Carter used the same procedure and unlocked his other wrist. He thought about trying to pick the lock on his left wrist, which would probably require using his right hand. He decided to just leave things as they were.  
If he twisted his head, he could see that there was a window in a far corner of the cellar; once he was completely free of the chair, he’d see if he could open it or break the glass or something, and try to climb out onto the street. From there...he supposed all he could do was run for the woods and hope he wouldn’t get shot. At least it was still dark outside, giving him more of a chance.  
 _Here goes nothing._

Carter leaned over, reaching for the cuffs around one of his ankles.  
His ribs popped again, and what blood was left in his body seemed to flow straight to his head.  
A few seconds later, a wave of blackness was flowing over his eyes, and he barely heard the sound of the cellar door opening.


	8. Hogan wastes no more time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight description of blood here, but nothing too gruesome.  
> Just thought I'd warn you regardless.

Special operative Morris had been a professional actor in civilian life, and he had joined the Underground about midway through the war, after certain informants realized his resemblance to the major. He’d been shipped over for an operation where they had actually intended to capture or assassinate Hochstetter and have Morris take his place, but for complicated reasons the plan had fallen through and been discarded, and for even more complicated reasons they hadn’t been able to send him home. Ever since Morris had been inhabiting an abandoned bunker in the woods, basically waiting to be a secret weapon, because his appearance would make it difficult for him to live anywhere else. At least, that’s what he said; Hogan had his suspicions that there were other reasons, but didn’t want to waste the breath that would be required asking about them.

Morris told them all of this as his hair was being dyed, a fake mustache applied to his upper lip, and a fake Gestapo uniform hurriedly fitted to him. Newkirk wasn’t sure that he actually cared about the man’s backstory, but apparently the man had a tendency to babble when he was nervous.  
At least Hogan had realized that they couldn’t sit around with a cuppa tea while Morris told his tale of woe; they needed to get ready to go, now.

* * *

Kinch raced through the tunnels, carrying the explosives and a lighter in his arms.  
When he reached the end of the one Hogan had selected, he cautiously peered out through the trapdoor, on this side camouflaged under a large cluster of moss and a fallen log.  
A few Krauts were out there, still searching, but even in the dark he could tell that they were tired of being in the woods this late at night on what was looking like a wild goose chase.  
 _Time to give them something interesting to report._  
Grimly, Kinch picked up a few rocks that were nearby on the ground, and hurled one off into the shadows.  
One of the soldiers jumped nervously.  
“Was is los?”  
Kinch threw another rock, which made a satisfying crunching noise-even better, there was a frightened squawking and flapping indicating that he’d disturbed some kind of bird in the undergrowth.  
Within seconds, all three soldiers were rushing off to investigate the noise.  
Kinch scrambled into the clearing, and then hurriedly set up the rockets in a cluster. Then he lit the fuses, and jumped back into the tunnel.  
 _3...2...1…_  
He hadn’t gone three feet back towards the barracks before the explosion.

* * *

There went the signal. Newkirk counted to five, before he, Jager and Morris-who was now the spitting image of everyone’s favorite Gestapo officer-were out the door of the barracks and rushing to where the staff cars were kept. A cluster of Undergrounders were on their heels, ready to start sabotaging the road behind them (though hopefully nothing that couldn’t be fixed before they got back to Stalag 13). Newkirk produced one of their spare keys, handing it over to Jager as they pulled the doors open and began climbing inside-  
“Halt! Was is los?”  
Newkirk closed his eyes for a moment and muttered something unprintable.  
 _Schultz. Of all the times for you to choose to be observant..._

The big German came puffing over, rifle pointed at them. As he saw their uniforms, however, his jaw dropped a little, and he began to stutter.  
“F-forgive me, I did not recognize that you were-” He frowned, not yet recognizing Newkirk through his disguise. “But how did you-”  
It was then that Newkirk got his first glimpse of Morris’s talent.  
He leaned out of the car, and snapped, in a very realistic impersonation of Hochstetter, “I do not have to explain myself to you, sergeant! Go investigate that explosion with the rest of your pitiful crew, and tell no one that we have this car, _is that understood_?!”  
“Jawohl, Herr Major!” Schultz gasped, standing down at once and taking a step back. “I saw nothing, NOTHING!”

As the staff car rushed out of the hastily-opened gates and down the road, Morris leaned back with a sigh of relief.  
“Dear me, it’s been a long time since I’ve had to take on a roll this nasty. Ooh, my hands are still trembling, look.”  
Inwardly, his fellow Englishman rolled his eyes.

* * *

The ride to Hammelburg passed in a blur. Newkirk barely even noticed when they passed another staff car on the road-undoubtedly the one containing the real Hochstetter, chomping at the bit to bring Hogan in as a spy.  
 _They better be ready for them._  
But he didn’t have time to worry about that, because now they were pulling up outside the address, and Morris was stalking out of the car, and he and Jager followed him inside.

A corporal waiting at the front door hurriedly saluted, and heiled, barely taking the time to shoot Newkirk and Jager a curious look.  
Morris curtly saluted back, and then demanded, “Any word from the prisoner?”  
The young man-he might have even been as young as Carter, probably one of those Hitler Youth who’d risen quickly in the ranks-shook his head. “We have heard nothing from him since you left, Herr Major.”  
A small knot of dread tightened in Newkirk’s gut; that could mean that Carter was no longer alive, that he’d...succumbed to his wounds.  
Morris simply said, “Well, I have come to collect him. We shall see if they can do a better job of extracting information in Berlin.”  
The corporal blinked. “But Herr Major-I was under the impression that you had decided to bring a fresh prisoner here, and conduct a joint interrogation-”  
Suddenly the smaller man was standing right under his chin, and bellowing, “ **ARE YOU QUESTIONING MY ORDERS?!** ”  
The corporal jerked back with a little squeak, and finally stammered out, “N-no, Herr Major.”  
Morris glared at him, and whipped out a handkerchief to dab a glob of spit away from his own chin.  
“See that you don’t,” he sneered. And then he marched inside and towards the nearest hallway, apparently making an educated guess as to where Carter was actually being kept.

“Herr Major!”  
Newkirk froze just as he and Jager started to follow; his fear grew stronger. They’d done something to make him suspicious, they were going to be caught any moment, something-  
The corporal was holding out a ring of handcuff keys, looking quite nervous.  
Morris snatched them, glaring contemptuously as if to suggest how annoyed he was that he hadn’t offered them right away. Then he resumed his stomping.

* * *

It wasn’t hard to figure out where Carter was; Newkirk doubted there’d be many other rooms with a big gorilla standing outside the door.  
He stepped aside as soon as Morris approached, and started to block the other two men, until the man currently known as Hochstetter snapped, “They are here to help me remove the prisoner, _dummkopf_!”  
The sergeant gave no indication of feeling offended by the insult, or even being curious about why orders had changed; he just nodded and allowed them to descend the stairs, waiting at the top.

The first thing Newkirk noticed was the permeating smell of blood, making him glad Lebeau wasn’t here.  
Then he was able to see the interior of the cellar, and now he was really glad Lebeau wasn’t here, because he would have fainted dead away and the sergeant would have undoubtedly gotten suspicious.  
Carter was doubled over in a chair, looking as limp as a rag doll, with a small red river running onto his boots and down to a nearby drain. His hair and back looked fine, but as they got closer Newkirk could kind of see that the front part of him was stained red, and he couldn’t see him breathing, and then there were his hands-  
Outwardly he remained stoic, but inside his stomach was heaving.

Slowly he forced himself forward, as Morris pressed the keys into his hand, noticing that his friend’s ankles were still chained to the chair. He barely took the time to wonder why the rest of him was free.  
Newkirk knelt down by Carter’s side, and put two fingers to his neck.  
A small sigh of relief escaped him; there was still a pulse. And this close he could see a slight rise and fall, a faint intaking of breath.  
As he unchained Carter, Newkirk saw a flash of metal in his left hand.  
A paperclip.  
A rush of pride filled his heart-the ruddy idiot had remembered some of his lessons after all.  
Then Jager was helping him lift Carter onto his feet, and chaining his wrists even though he was clearly unconscious (Newkirk had to try not to gag again, looking at his poor mangled hand), and together they were making their way out of the cellar.

It was almost too easy how quickly they got Carter out; but what mattered was that he was with them now, and they were heading back to Stalag 13.  
Carter hadn’t really woken up during the process; just lolled his head and made slight moaning noises. Neither the corporal nor the sergeant had commented; they were probably used to such sights by now.  
This time Newkirk sat in the back with Morris, with Carter propped up between them, as Jager drove.  
As soon as they were out of view of that terrible house, Newkirk was unchaining Carter’s wrists, and trying to remember what he knew about fixing broken fingers.  
 _You have to splint them somehow, make sure they’re kept straight._  
He dug his hands into his pockets, looking for something he could use for splints. All he managed to find that would be useful in this case was some string and some matchsticks.  
 _Well, better than nothing._  
He pulled Carter’s hand over to him, and went to work making splints.  
He’d barely started on the third finger when Carter’s eyelids began fluttering.


	9. Hochstetter and Burkhalter are inconvenienced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you had a lovely Thanksgiving (those among you who celebrate it), and that you will enjoy this chapter.

General Burkhalter was not pleased.  
Considering that he’d been pulled out of bed in the middle of the night by Major Hochstetter with another wild story about the POWs in Stalag 13, I can’t honestly say that I blame him.  
And now he was in a cramped staff car racing toward his least favorite camp, next to that loathsome weasel of a man.  
The aforementioned weasel was practically jittery with excitement, eyes glinting with a kind of savage triumph. He hadn’t even explained what exactly he’d found on Colonel Hogan, merely that they had to go to the camp first.  
_This had better be good_ , Burkhalter grumbled internally.

So when the car suddenly came to a halt and tilted on its right side, sending the two officers slamming into each other, you can probably understand why his mood became even darker.  
“What is going on?! What happened?!” he demanded, shoving Hochstetter away from him with more force than was truly necessary.  
The driver got out, and a few seconds later peered sheepishly through the window.  
“It appears that the right front wheel is in a pothole, Herr General.”  
“Then get it out, you idiot!” Hochstetter snarled, shoving his door open and practically tumbling out onto the ground.  
Burkhalter sighed, and rubbed his aching head with one gloved hand.

In his eagerness to get going, Hochstetter actually removed his coat and hat and helped the driver.  
Even so, it took them a good ten minutes to get the car free-and they actually had the audacity to ask Burkhalter to get out of the car in hopes of “lightening the load.”  
He had only done so when it became apparent that they could not budge the car, bristling with indignation at their implications all the while.  
Thankfully, though, now they were on the way again.  
Hochstetter, his coat and hat back in place, was jittery (again).  
“This is part of Colonel Hogan’s plan to keep us from getting there, I just know it!” he exclaimed, glaring out the window into the darkness.  
Burkhalter gave him a look.  
“You think that Colonel Hogan, the prisoner of war, put a pothole in the road. To keep you from reaching the stalag.”  
Hochstetter jerked his head around and trained his scowl on him.  
“You’ll see!” he snapped. “You’ll see just how much he’s been capable of all this time- _G___ in Himmel!_ ”  
There was a loud cracking noise, and an enormous tree fell with a crash into the road just in front of them.

If you were in the nearby vicinity, you could just barely hear the sound of two voices yelling from the car for at least a minute.  
Eventually, though, it backed up, painstakingly turned around, and began making its way towards the other road to Hammelburg, barely skirting around the pothole this time.  
From the shelter of the trees, two members of the Underground watched them cautiously.  
Schopenhauer gave a sigh of disappointment.  
“They didn’t even reach the line of nails.”  
Reinigen patted his shoulder half sarcastically.  
“There, there.”  
Then he shoved him.  
“Now hurry-we have to get everything moved before the other car gets back.”

* * *

Voices…  
There were voices-  
No.  
One voice.  
It was echoing around his head, calling out to him, but it sounded really far away…  
“Carter. Sergeant Andrew Carter. Can you ‘ear me?”  
It was the voice of someone he knew-he thought.  
But not what he expected.  
The voice of someone he knew and liked and trusted-kind, worried-sounding.  
British.

Hesitantly, Carter opened his eyes all the way.  
And he found himself looking at Newkirk-  
Only Newkirk wasn’t wearing blue like he was supposed to, his clothes were black and all wrong.  
He frowned dazedly.  
“Carter. Can you ‘ear me?” Newkirk repeated.  
Wait.  
Newkirk was here.  
Were they both in the cellar?  
He jerked, looking around a little frantically-  
No, no, they were in a car-he could feel the movement now.  
Then he turned his head, and saw Major Hochstetter sitting next to him.

“Carter! Carter! No! It’s okay!”  
Newkirk wrapped his arms more firmly around Carter, trying to keep him from writhing and hurting himself more.  
“It’s not really Major ‘ochstetter, it’s okay, calm down!”  
Carter was still twisting like a trapped animal, uttering little frightened gasps (because apparently he was experiencing too much pain in his chest to scream) and alternating between trying to get away and practically burrowing into Newkirk’s side, either way trying to get as far away from the other man as possible.  
Finally, in desperation Newkirk grabbed his friend’s face in his hands, and turned him around to face him.  
“Carter! Listen to me. That’s not ‘ochstetter. It’s just someone ‘ho looks like ‘im. Don’t worry. You’re safe.”  
Carter blinked slowly, his pulse still jumping in his throat, pupils dilated practically to the whites. But eventually, he relaxed somewhat-and promptly moaned with pain, clutching at his chest.

“I think they either broke or cracked his ribs,” Morris said softly. “Possibly both.”  
Newkirk muttered something questioning the parentage and legitimacy of Hochstetter and all his ilk, and set about trying to get Carter in a more comfortable position, so he could also go back to tending his tortured fingers.  
“It’s okay, Carter, we’ve got you back now.”  
He nodded slowly, eyes starting to droop-  
And they snapped open again, and he turned to Newkirk urgently.

“ _Newkirk! We have to go back! There’s other people trapped back there, I saw them! We need to-_ ”  
“Andrew, Andrew, ANDREW!” Newkirk interrupted, looking bewildered. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying, mate.”  
It took Carter a confused moment to realize that in all the excitement, he had forgotten how to speak English.  
He swallowed, and after an awkward moment of thought reset his brain.  
“We have to go back. There’s other people being held prisoner in that house-two men in pilot’s uniforms, and a family. Man and woman, and three children. They must have been trying to escape Germany or something and gotten caught.”  
Newkirk glanced at this man who was apparently not Hochstetter, and then back at him.  
“We didn’t see them when we came in.”  
“Then they’re probably upstairs or something! Please, you need to help them before he-he-he-”  
Carter gestured to himself, indicating the sort of thing he was afraid would happen to those people. As he did, he realized that he was starting to shake all of a sudden. It was like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over him-really like it, because now there was water running down his face, except it was warm water, and he was having even more trouble getting his breath now because his chest was heaving, and weird sounds were coming out of his mouth-

Warm arms were suddenly around him, and his face was being pressed into a shoulder, and Newkirk was whispering, “Ssh, it’s okay, Andrew. You’re safe now. They won’t ‘urt you again.”  
Even though they both knew it wasn’t okay, and he couldn’t make any guarantees about Carter’s safety; it was just what you told people in this kind of situation.  
Carter sobbed again, and then looked up urgently.  
“I didn’t talk. I didn’t tell them anything, I swear. Except that I had nothing to say to them, and that Lakhota is a real language-”  
“Ssh…” Newkirk cradled him as gently as possible; Carter’s left fingers found his sleeve, and held on for dear life.  
Finally, Newkirk spoke again, as his friend’s breathing calmed and the shaking lessened.  
“You were very brave, Andrew. The colonel’s going to be so proud.”  
Carter just closed his eyes, and tried to focus on the feeling of safety surrounding him now instead of the dark memories infiltrating his brain.


	10. Hochstetter gets to Stalag 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know this is kind of short. If you want I'll publish the next chapter, which is also kind of short, relatively soon to make up for it.  
> Also, I realize the chronology is kind of funky; part of that's because I ended a lot of chapters for the purpose of dramatic effect. So if you feel like events are occurring in kind of a weird order, you're probably right.

The staff car containing Hochstetter and Burkhalter was less than a minute away from Stalag 13, and the poor driver had already been threatened with court martial, a firing squad, and the Russian Front if he didn’t get there faster.  
Several times.  
In rapid succession.  
Part of him wanted to make some kind of comment on how there was a war on, and gasoline didn’t grow on trees.  
He decided to be sensible instead, and kept his trap shut.

It probably wouldn’t have surprised anyone that much if Hochstetter had started foaming at the mouth. As it was, he was drumming his fingers on the seat in front of him like a hyperactive squirrel, complete with excitedly chattering under his breath.  
When the gates of the Stalag finally came into view, Hochstetter barked a satisfied laugh, eyes burning feverishly.

* * *

Soon they were pulling up at the gate and demanding entrance into the camp; naturally Klink was at their sides as soon as they exited the car, fawning over Burkhalter and wanting to know what had brought him here at this time of night.  
“Major Hochstetter tells me that he has some information on who is responsible for the factory that exploded a few hours ago,” Burkhalter said, fighting back a yawn.  
“Oh, yes, I heard about that, it was just terrible that such an act of sabotage could occur here,” Klink babbled. “There was another explosion on the far side of camp earlier that we investigated, but it turned out to be just a few fireworks that someone had set up-”  
“Aha!” Hochstetter crowed. “That would be our dear Colonel Hogan’s work!”  
“Did someone say my name?” asked Hogan.

All three Germans jumped, and fell over themselves spinning around to see the chief POW, who was standing behind them with his hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket, and an expression of polite curiosity across his face.  
Before Klink could reprimand him for being out of the barracks this time of night, Hochstetter composed himself and said, with malice, “Colonel Hogan, I believe you have a man missing.”  
“What?!” Klink squealed.  
Hogan, on the other hand, merely raised his eyebrow. “Really? I didn’t know that.”  
“Of course you didn’t.” Hochstetter looked back at General Burkhalter. “One of them went for a little walk earlier this evening, and made his way into the factory, dressed in a Gestapo uniform, and was responsible for its destruction. But he was arrested, and I have been interrogating him for the past few hours.”  
To his surprise, Hogan’s response was to snort with laughter.  
“Been hitting the schnapps a little, Major? None of my men are missing from camp. The Kommandant did a count earlier, and we’re all still here.”  
The little major jerked his head around to glare at Klink.  
“Is that true?”  
Klink stumbled over himself a little. “Well, eh, Sergeant Schultz did say they were all present and accounted for-”  
“And you believed him?!” Hochstetter snapped. “I will prove it to you myself!”  
With that, he marched towards Barracks Two. After a second, the others hurried after him.

* * *

Hochstetter nearly knocked the door off its hinges, startling the group of men inside, who were in the process of getting ready for bed again after that tedious surprise inspection.  
Burkhalter peered into the room, and finally growled, “All the bunks appear to be occupied, Major.”  
“Hah!” Hochstetter snarled, turning to Hogan. “Which bed is normally your precious Sergeant Carter’s?”  
Hogan gestured to the one; from the top bunk, Corporal Newkirk squinted down at them, adjusting his nightshirt and wearing an expression that seemed to ask, _What the bloody h___ is going on?_  
In the bunk below, a figure lay stretched out under the blankets, his cap pulled down over his face. All you could make out of him from this angle was that he was fair-haired, and on the tan-to-pale side.  
Hochstetter immediately began advancing toward him-only to find Hogan standing in his way.

“Now wait a minute,” he said urgently, “you really shouldn’t disturb him. He’s been having insomnia lately-I think it’s a problem with the food, the bread’s been a little less ersatz-”  
“Get out of my way.”  
Slowly, with concern in his eyes, Hogan allowed Hochstetter to march towards the bed, and yank the cap off the man’s head-  
He froze, his expression twisted into utter bewilderment.  
“Oh, hi, Major,” said Carter, blinking and squinting in the sudden influx of light.


	11. Carter is vindicated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what? Screw it; I'm adding another chapter about five days early. I'm an author; I don't have to be restricted to a schedule. Besides, like I said, the last chapter and this one are both pretty short.

For a moment Hochstetter could only stare at him, lower jaw flapping.  
Then he roared, loud enough to blast everyone’s eardrums, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!”; totally bypassing his traditional rule of asking the question three times with increasing levels of volume.  
After a moment of looking dazed, Carter said, “Well, I live here now. In fact, I’ve been here so long that it’s kind of home away from home. Especially after we started having our own traditional Christmas party-”  
“What has happened to your face?” Burkhalter interjected, squinting.

Even with all the blood cleaned off, you could still tell that something had happened to Carter. Both his cheeks and his nose were swollen and bruised, with a few cuts here and there, and one of his big blue eyes was going to have a nasty shiner for a while.  
Now Carter looked embarrassed.  
“Um, earlier tonight me and Newkirk switched bunks because we were testing them, trying to see whose was more comfortable. But we forgot that I sometimes walk in my sleep, and I guess I decided to go for a stroll a couple of hours ago.”  
Anyone else would have been suspicious of this little explanation, especially taking into account the fact that there were bruises on both sides of his face. Klink and Burkhalter, however, were at least marginally familiar with Carter; if anyone was capable of doing it, it was him.

By now, however, Hochstetter had recovered from his shock somewhat, and snarled, “Lies! He was being questioned by myself and one of my staff, that is what happened to his face!”  
“Oh, come off it, Major,” said Hogan, “How could you have been questioning him when he’s been here all night? We haven’t even finished cleaning up the spot where he landed, look!” And he indicated a spot in the space between bunk beds with some blood smeared on the floorboards (Lebeau looked away, queasily).  
Klink was by now looking quite satisfied with the explanation; Burkhalter’s expression was more along the lines of “too tired and bored with all this nonsense to care.”  
And then Hochstetter’s eyes lit up as he looked down at Carter’s hands, which were encased in their usual gloves, the right one lying a little unusually stiffly against the blanket.  
“Take off your gloves.”

* * *

Carter’s eyes widened in alarm.  
“What?”  
The Gestapo officer grabbed his right wrist in one hand, started to pull off the glove with the other-  
“ _Hochstetter!_ ”

General Burkhalter spoke in the tone he usually used when addressing Klink; i.e. the tone of a man who is at the end of his patience.  
“You dragged me here at this ungodly hour of the morning claiming you were holding one of Colonel Hogan’s men for questioning in Hammelburg, and therefore he would be out of camp.”  
Lebeau took advantage of the distraction to discreetly remove Carter’s wrist from Hochstetter’s grasp, and shuffle him as out of reach as possible.  
“Instead,” Burkhalter went on, “I see Colonel Hogan’s man _not_ out of camp, and the only thing he seems to be guilty of is walking in his sleep!”  
He yanked the door open, and stomped out, before whirling around.  
“You can _walk_ back to Hammelburg if you wish to stay here attempting to prove your ridiculous claims, but I am leaving!”  
And he marched on, with Klink rushing after him in sycophantic sympathy.

* * *

Hochstetter’s face slowly flooded with a deep, burning crimson.  
“Might want to watch your blood pressure, Major,” said Hogan sweetly, “you might end up having a stroke.”  
“We should be so lucky,” Newkirk muttered.  
You can probably guess what Hochstetter’s response was, once he was able to finally form coherent speech.  
“BAAAAH!!!!”


	12. Wilson is not pleased

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a reposting, because something was screwy last time and the website wouldn't let me say how many chapters were in this story. So hopefully this will fix the problem.

Hochstetter finally left the bunker, giving all of them (even Carter, who he normally wouldn’t have given the time of day) a look best described as “abject hatred,” before slamming the door so hard the windows rattled.  
Once he was gone, Hogan and Newkirk wasted no time in helping Carter out of bed.  
He had a doctor’s appointment.

* * *

  
“Two ribs broken, three cracked, all the fingers broken on your right hand, a black eye, abrasions and hematomas everywhere-you are giving me gray hairs, young man!” Wilson scolded as he placed a layer of bandages around Carter’s chest, with the purpose of making sure he could breathe without expanding his ribs too much and causing himself further pain.  
“Sorry I got caught,” Carter murmured. The morphine was already starting to affect him; his head lolled sleepily, and he kept fidgeting his newly-splinted fingers, wishing he could bend them normally.  
Wilson sighed, and patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, it’s not your fault.”  
“No, it’s the fault of those boche-” Lebeau said a few French insults that made Carter blush around the ears.

  
Hogan came over to get Wilson’s damage report once he was finished and Lebeau was helping Carter put his shirt back on.  
“He’s going to need six to eight weeks to heal,” the medic said. “Which means _no_ taking him out on missions-” he glared at Hogan as if he made a routine of exacerbating the injuries of his men- “and no strenuous physical exercise. Is that clear?”  
Hogan nodded meekly.  
“I can still make bombs, right?” Carter asked in a slurred tone.  
The medic and the colonel looked at each other, before Hogan said, “We’ll talk about that later. Right now we need to get you to bed.”  
“I wanna help,” Carter murmured. Then he looked up right into Hogan’s eyes. “They’ll save them, right?”  
He was referring to Jager and the other Undergrounders, who had headed back to Hammelburg to see if they could find those other people who had been in the house.  
“They’ll try,” Hogan reassured him. “Come on, time to stand up.”

  
“You’ve certainly been through the wringer tonight,” Hogan said as he and Newkirk finally got Carter laid down and tucked in.  
“‘S not so bad,” he murmured with a sunny smile. “Not everything hurts. My legs are fine.”  
He pulled up the blankets so he could lift one and show them his foot.  
“I can still wiggle my toes and it doesn’t hurt, see?”  
He demonstrated.  
Hogan gave him a slightly watery smile, and tucked him back in again. “Way to look on the bright side, Andrew.”

* * *

Carter ended up sleeping through most of the rest of the day, aided by the morphine; Fischer had to fill in for him a few times, and Schultz accepted the excuse that he was wearing his cap pulled down because he didn’t want everyone looking at his injured face. The other men took turns watching over him, and making sure he kept hydrated and occasionally got a little nourishment. Fraulein Hilda heard that he was feeling under the weather, so to speak, and brought him some flowers and a “Get Well Soon” card.  
Late that evening, Jager came up the tunnel, looking grim.  
“We managed to save the children and their father,” Jager told Hogan in his personal quarters. “They had been trying to make him talk.”  
Hogan closed his eyes for a moment. “I see.”  
“Are they okay?” asked Carter.

  
They jumped, and realized that at some point he had gotten up and was now standing in the doorway, a blanket halfway draped over his shoulders, eyes big and mournful.  
“Are you gonna bring them here so we can get them passports and stuff?” he persisted.  
Jager nodded. “They’re down in the tunnels right now.”  
“Good. At least we can do something to help them.”  
And he shuffled away.

* * *

The man and his children were all in various stages of shock as they went through the process of being fitted into new civilian clothes, having fake passports created, etc.  
They didn’t talk much.  
Nobody blamed them.  
Carter insisted on coming down into the tunnel during the processing (despite Wilson’s adamant protests), and sat on a bench, watching them, quietly stewing in guilt.

  
Objectively, he knew that it wasn’t really his fault.  
It was the fault of the men who had killed their companions to try to get information out of Mr. Braun, the father (no relation to Eva).  
But his stomach still twisted and throbbed because these children were now half-orphans, and might even have been forced to watch-  
“What happened to your hand?”

  
During his miserable musings, Carter had missed the fact that one of the children, a tousle-haired little girl who couldn’t have been more than five, had wandered over.  
“Gretchen!” her father scolded, “Don’t be rude!”  
“Oh, it’s-it’s okay,” he stammered, letting her have a look at his bandaged fingers. “I got hurt really bad, so these are getting fixed up.”  
She tilted her head and stared up at him. “I remember you. The bad men brought you into the house while we were there.”  
It felt like a punch in the gut (and he really knew what that felt like now), but Carter nodded.  
“Yeah. I’m sorry.”  
Gretchen just climbed onto the bench so she was at his side.  
“Does it hurt?”  
She pointed to the bandages.  
“All the time.”  
She gave a sympathetic grimace.  
“Peter-” she pointed to her brother- “broke his leg once when his sled crashed into a tree, and when the doctor fixed it up it looked a lot like that.”  
“That must have been horrible.”  
“ _Ja_ , he was in a lot of pain, but it’s better now…”

* * *

  
He didn’t think Gretchen had really forgotten about her mother’s death. But perhaps her youth made it easier for it not to prey on her mind.  
It was the least he could do to just sit and listen to her chatter away until it was time for her to go.


	13. Aftermath rears its ugly head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter, everyone!

Newkirk opened his eyes with a slight sigh.  
Carter was whimpering in his sleep again.  
Wilson was being careful about how much morphine he gave him (because the last thing they wanted was for him to become an addict), and the slight lessening of the drug appeared to bring an increase in nightmares.  
Just like during the others, Carter began muttering the same thing in Lakota-ese, over and over.  
The Englander could guess what it was: probably _I have nothing to say to yo_ u.

Newkirk sat up slowly, and peered around.  
Everyone else seemed to be deeply asleep; either that, or they were very good at acting.  
He hoped it was the latter, for the sake of what he was about to do.  
Climbing out of bed, the Brit got to the floor, and pulled up a chair next to Carter’s bunk. Then, slowly, he began running his fingers through the younger man’s hair, smoothing it back off his forehead, accompanying the action with a song.

He hadn’t been able to remember the exact tune of the lullaby that Carter’s grandpa used to sing to him, and didn’t think he would’ve been able to pronounce the original lyrics properly if he’d tried. So he’d had to change the lyrics into his own (literally) Anglicized version, and just follow the tune as best he could:  
_Run, little deer,_  
_Don’t be a hunter’s stew._  
_Hide, little deer,_  
_So Foxy can’t see you._  
_Fly, little deer,_  
_And see the eagle’s view._  
_Eat, little deer._  
_Eat more than rabbits do._

It was a little silly, and he found himself cringing at some of the rhymes, but it worked. Carter settled down, and his breathing evened out into a more peaceful sleep. With a relieved smile, Newkirk patted his head, then put the chair back in place and climbed up into his own bunk.  
He really, really hoped nobody knew about him doing this; he’d probably never live it down.

At least if they did, nobody had said anything yet.

* * *

“No no no no NO!” Carter screamed, waving his hands back and forth frantically. “Not that one! Use the black wire!”  
“Carter,” said Newkirk, looking back at him and speaking through extremely gritted teeth, “you realize that you nearly gave me an ‘eart attack just now?”  
Carter shrugged awkwardly, wincing as it jostled his ribs.  
“Sorry. Just don’t want you, you know.”  
“Blowing everyone up?”  
He nodded.  
Breathing out through his nose, Newkirk turned back to the bomb he was assembling under Carter’s supervision.

It was maddening to Carter that he was still not capable of using his fingers the way he wanted to. They still had to be in splints, making his daily chores all the more difficult even if he hadn’t been wearing gloves anytime he wasn’t in the barracks, and Fischer was substituting for him as much as they could get away with. It also meant, however, that he couldn’t make the bombs himself-instead he had to teach Newkirk how to do it.  
This first lesson was proving to be difficult indeed.

“Okay, now add a little more powdered aluminum-not too much, please, yeah, that’s good-maybe just a drop more of ammonium-no, not that one, the one next to it-okay, and begin closing it up. Okay, good. To set it you wind the clock-”  
“I think I know how to do that part,” Newkirk said drily.  
Carter looked sheepish again. “Right, sorry.”  
Newkirk held out the completed bomb. “Live up to your standards, inspector?”  
Carter examined it critically, running his left pointer finger over the side...and then finally gave it his smile of approval.  
“Good job, boy.”

A throat cleared behind them.  
It turned out to be Heidegger, who was standing with his hands clasped behind him.  
“Sergeant Carter?” he asked.  
Carter nodded, looking a little uncertain (as opposed to Newkirk, who looked a little murderous).  
“I have something for you.”  
Without further ado, Heidegger reached into his pocket and produced...a medal.  
Not just any medal-an Iron Cross.  
“This was once mine, but-” he took on Carter’s habit of anthropomorphizing inanimate objects- “I think it wants to belong to you now.”  
“M-me?” Carter squeaked.  
Heidegger nodded, the corners of his mouth turning up a little. “For extreme bravery and valor.” And he handed it to Carter, who took it eagerly.

It wasn’t exactly an apology for leaving him behind, but it was enough to make Newkirk stop glaring like an English bulldog.  
Using his left hand and the edges of his right fingers, Carter undid the pin, pinned it onto the inside of his coat (because it might be a little awkward to explain to Schultz or Klink), and redid the clasp.  
“Wow, thanks. I’ve never gotten a German medal before. I hope the colonel won’t mind.”  
Newkirk patted his shoulder. “Trust me, he won’t.”

* * *

About two weeks after the incident, Kinch came up the ladder into the barracks wearing an unusually devious grin.  
“Got news about Hochstetter,” he said.  
Instantly he was surrounded by curious faces.  
“They haven’t killed him. Or sent him to Russia.”  
Several people looked disappointed.  
“However, he apparently has a lot to answer for, considering that he claimed he was taking a prisoner to Berlin for further questioning, then appeared to somehow lose him on the way and can’t give a satisfactory answer for it, and in fact denies ever taking him out of Hammelburg. And then after he left for Berlin, the rest of his staff lost four more important prisoners.”  
People were now wearing expressions of undisguised glee.  
“Of course, he does have General Burkhalter vouching for him, because they were driving here at the same time as Hochstetter was allegedly retrieving Carter-”  
Disappointment again.  
“-but he’s been given orders to stay away from Stalag 13 for a while, due to his unhealthy obsession with it interfering with his duties.”  
Glee again.

* * *

It wasn’t a perfect ending-they’d have to deal with Hochstetter again on some other day-and he’d probably be chomping at the bit to prove his claims once and for all.  
But it was a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about ending this with them giving Carter a toast for temporarily getting rid of Hochstetter or something, but I didn't want to overdo it.  
> Thank you to all those who have been diligently reading and commenting. And Merry Christmas to all those who celebrate it; Happy Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/insert holiday of choice to all the rest of you too!


End file.
